The Moscow Sleepers

38

When her husband Owen first took early retirement from his job at the Costco warehouse in Halesworth, Agatha Jones had been worried how they would make ends meet. They had moved from Southwold to this village three years before, and were happy here, but they still had a small mortgage on their cottage, and life never seemed to get any cheaper, even for an elderly couple with simple needs. She herself still worked part-time at a bakery in Wangford, and she had wondered if she should ask to do more hours.

But it turned out there was nothing to worry about. Between Owen’s Costco pension, the state pension and Agatha’s wages, they got by quite easily. They were even thinking of taking one of those Saga cruises they’d read about in the Saturday Telegraph last winter, though admittedly it would only be a short one – perhaps to Scandinavia or the Scottish islands.

So money was not a problem, but Owen’s retirement was still turning out to be a bit of a trial. The problem was that he had never been a man for hobbies – unless you counted reading the paper and watching the news as ‘hobbies’ – and even now that he had all the time in the world, what he didn’t seem to have was any interests. He didn’t read books, he didn’t like to garden, he didn’t listen to music; the only thing he seemed to do was be under foot all day long. And it was driving Agatha mad.

Fortunately, she had her work, which got her out of the house, and her sister Maudie, who lived in Southwold still, was always happy to give her a cup of tea when she’d finished her hours at the bakery. The two of them had never been close, but anything was better than going home to find Owen dozing on the sofa with the television on.

Then there was her neighbour, Miss Girling. Funny how even now they’d got to know each other quite well, she was still ‘Miss Girling’ to Agatha. When they’d first arrived, Agatha had found her a bit offputting – it hadn’t come as a surprise to learn she was some kind of schoolteacher. But once Owen had retired and Agatha had found an almost desperate need to get out of the house, she had made a concerted effort to get to know her neighbour better, and had partially succeeded. She wasn’t altogether sure how much Miss Girling enjoyed her visits, at least at first, though it seemed a good sign that recently she’d begun to talk about the school where she worked – there had been a change of ownership, it seemed, and not one Miss Girling was happy with.

The students nowadays were all foreigners, and strange ones at that. What had been a school for boys and girls from local well-off families was now, according to Miss Girling, becoming a repository for immigrants. Agatha had enjoyed hearing about the children. You saw such terrible things in the news – all those people drowned trying to cross the sea in little boats, all that bombing and people getting their heads chopped off. It was a terrible world and she was pleased that at least some of the poor children had made it safely to Suffolk, even if the school was not as nice as it used to be.

She was looking forward to hearing more about the children today but unusually Miss Girling didn’t seem to be at home. She’d gone round the previous evening, but to her surprise Miss Girling hadn’t answered the door, even though she could see through the front door’s frosted-glass window that a light was on in the kitchen at the back. When she’d telephoned this morning, the phone had rung and rung, and when she’d gone round again Miss Girling still hadn’t answered the door.

This was most unlike her neighbour. Once in a blue moon Miss Girling went to see a school friend in London overnight, but Agatha couldn’t otherwise think of an evening when she hadn’t been there. She never went to the pub for a drink, she didn’t seem to go on school trips overnight, she hadn’t any family left, or at least she’d never mentioned any. So where could she be?

Agatha couldn’t settle and at lunchtime she decided to try again, even though she knew that Miss Girling rarely if ever came home for lunch. Leaving the house, she walked to the little wicker gate that led to Miss Girling’s front door, went down the path and pressed the bell, and heard its loud ring. Peering through the window in the door, she saw to her surprise that the same light was still on.

This seemed very odd. Agatha hesitated – she didn’t know her neighbour that well, after all – but felt she must investigate. She walked around the side of the house nearest to her own. The blinds on both the kitchen window and the door were down, blocking any view into the room. This suggested that Miss Girling was away, but then why had she left a light on? Agatha was pondering this when she became aware of the faint sound of music. Putting her ear to the door she listened carefully. The music was coming from the kitchen – it sounded like pop music from a radio.

It was now that Agatha grew alarmed. It was one thing accidentally leaving a light on when you left a house, quite another to leave the radio playing. It didn’t seem right – not like Miss Girling at all. As Agatha walked back to her house, there was a set expression on her face. The one her husband liked to call her ‘I’ve made up my mind’ look.

The police were sceptical and reluctant to act on Agatha’s phone call, even when she described the oddness of the situation and her concern about Miss Girling. It was only when she threatened to make a formal complaint (something her husband had once told her to say) that a squad car was finally dispatched.

PC Willis turned up an hour later, looking grumpy. He followed Agatha to the next-door house, where he leaned on the doorbell for about a minute. Nothing happened except that a pair of wood pigeons who were canoodling on the roof rose up, flapping their wings in loud protest. Agatha showed the constable round to the back door where they could both clearly hear a radio playing. It was this that seemed to convince Willis that something was amiss.

The policeman pushed hard at the door, and it shook promisingly. ‘Step back, madam,’ he said, ushering Agatha out of the way. He was wearing heavy black leather boots, and he hopped forward on one leg and with the other kicked high up by the door handle. The wooden frame shuddered, the lock broke and the door crashed open, its edge splintering, and fell on to the kitchen floor with Willis on top of it, while Agatha peered in from behind him.

‘Keep back!’ the policeman shouted, from his position sprawled on the floor.

But it was too late; Agatha had a perfect view of the kitchen chair that had been kicked over and now lay on its side. Above it, a stout length of rope had been tied around a drying rack suspended from the ceiling; twelve inches below that, the cord’s other end had been tied and looped into a noose around Miss Girling’s throat.